


A trail of crushed laurels

by Kandelaar



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Genius James T. Kirk, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, James T. Kirk Has Issues, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Sort-of dark James T. Kirk, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6784660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kandelaar/pseuds/Kandelaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy Kirk isn’t an old soul stuck in a young body, his teachers whisper, he’s sharp, jagged edges and a too-bright mind wrapped in skin and bones all glued together with his stepdaddy’s fists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A trail of crushed laurels

**I.**

They don’t know what to do with little Jimmy Kirk. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a chip on his shoulder that threatens to swallow him whole. He ain’t a bad kid, he’s just a victim of bad circumstances. They try, ‘course they do. He skips grade after grade and devours all the books they give him. He’s so far ahead of the curve it ain’t even close to normal anymore. He’s smart, that Kirk boy, too damn smart.

 

It’s when he comes to school with bruises on his arms, picking fights with kids twice his age and too stubborn to back down. When his permission slips come back signed with the illegible scribble of a drunk who, when called after Jim got into yet another fight, didn’t know nothing about a school trip. They figure out he’s been forging them for as long as he’s been at school. Forging them so well that it’d taken them years to notice.

 

An opportunity arises when Jimmy is eleven, too tiny still and more bones than bruise-mottled skin. He’s upstate twice a week, taking classes at the university, but they want him away from that hellhole the kid calls home for good. Social Services refuse to act, blocked by the boy’s absent momma who’s a hero’s widow so ‘course she gets special treatment. Frank ain’t rough, she says, the boy’s just too damn cocky. Let him bear his bruises, it’ll teach him to quit picking fights.

 

So when the message that there’s a special programme for bright kids at an up-and-comin’ colony out in the black? They take it. Anything to get that boy away from his stepdaddy’s hands and someplace where his mind can shine. They send him off, ‘cause there’s no way they’d reject that boy whose scores blow the curve clear off the planet. He’s smiling, they’re smiling and when the shuttle takes off they feel relieved. Jimmy Kirk is going places, they know that for sure, but right now he’s going somewhere _safe._

 

**II.**

He doesn’t know what to make of the mess. Thousands dead and an equal amount starving. The people remind him of the grainy photographs from centuries ago, when a different madman waged war on those he deemed inferior. The people here are as thin too, skin stretched taut over brittle bones. A breeze would blow them away, he knows for sure, the sniffles would kill them.

 

It because of that belief that he doesn’t notice it at first. Supplies that disappear, medicine that can’t be found. Doors that he knew were closed when he last saw them. He knows his colleagues wouldn’t, couldn’t be responsible. And those people on Tarsus were even less likely to be the culprit. Some junior offices joke about ghosts and it rattles him. Tarsus is haunted by plenty of ghosts, he can see them in the sunken eyes of his patients, and he scolds those responsible.

 

It’s two weeks in that it happens. Close to three dozen kids trickle into the campsite. Starved, bruised and battered but _alive_. There is something about them that sets them apart from the other survivors, the other victims. They seem strong, harsh. Their skin is a living watercolour of endurance, blue and black and green and yellow that cover their bodies whole. Then there are the knives, the stolen phasers and even an antique revolver that a weary-eyed girl ensures him works _just fine_.

 

The boy is an enigma. Young, blonde, eyes so blue they would haunt him forever. JT, they call him, awe in their voices and worship in their eyes. They say nothing about what happened, tight-lipped to the extreme, and what little they say boils down to the same. _JT fixed it_. _JT got us food. JT saved us_. JT doesn’t speak either, not like others do. He leads, orders, and his gaggle of children follow. He’s never heard the boy ask a question, not once.

 

“Samal needs antibiotics,” his voice doesn’t rise at the end, there is no implied question mark. He doesn’t ask if anyone agrees. He merely says it, takes the bottle from the shelf and leaves.

 

They ask him about his family, his past. Of course they do, gently at first but more urgently when that proves futile. The boy sits through the meetings with a mocking sneer, head titled back and eyebrows raised expectantly. _Go on_ , his face seems to say, _keep making fools of yourselves._ His little minions prove to be no better. Some say he’s a prince from a hidden underwater kingdom, others whisper he’s a guardian angel sent from a different dimension to protect them. One even calls him a science experiment gone wrong, resulting in him gaining superhuman strength when he’s angry.

 

Silly stories, his colleagues whisper with smiles, little children showing their true age and goofing off like they should.

 

 _Deliberate misinformation,_ his treacherous mind whispers, eyes locked on still too thin faces with eyes that seem to not miss _anything_. The stories grow wilder and more crazy as time passes. The only hint of deliberation is how none of them have even a grain of reality hidden inside, everything they made up is so _obviously_ made up to the point of ridicule. The time-travelling alien prince from another dimension in question plays dumb, but his eyes are stone-cold.

 

Later, after his team leaves for some much needed R&R he looks into the kid again, his mind nagging him until he gives in. There is no record of a JT ever boarding a Starfleet ship, or even checking into a Federation outpost at any time. He’s gone, vanished. Back to his underwater kingdom, maybe.

 

(His face haunt his dreams for years)

 

**III.**

The ‘fleet Academy teachers don’t know what to do with Kirk.

 

He’s loud, disrespectful and too damn proud. It’s in the curve of his jaw, the edge of his smile and the way he struts through the hallways like he owns them. If he were any other cadet they’d have him wailing for his momma within the week, but he isn’t like them at all. He doesn’t falter at the coursework, doesn’t break a sweat at the requirements. He merely leans back in his chair and grins.

 

His test scores come back and the charts they’ve made years past are thrown out of the window, there isn’t even a percentile to put him. It’s just him. James T. Kirk, at the top of the pyramid.

 

They try to break him, talk about it, ‘cause Kirk’s the kind of kid that simply won’t bend. They’re not aiming for a lawsuit, they’ll just push him a little. Get him in a situation that even he’ll be out of his depth in. All carefully controlled, some might want him dead but not _actually_ dead. It’s a graduation exam for fourth years in the security track. A survival course, one only the top-ten cadets in the class get to try their hand at. It’s not nothing, a drop-off in inhospitable terrain with the objective to return to the specially created outpost. Over eighty percent of the cadets drop out halfway through, a number that’s held steady for years.

 

Not with Kirk.

 

It’s him and all ten other cadets that cross the finish line. They’re tired and worse for the wear, bruised and riddled with bites and sores from local wildlife with a taste for humans and humanoids. It’s already damn impressive if it weren’t for the ‘fleet’s biggest ego. Kirk comes in carrying cadet Roswell on his back, his passenger’s foot quite obviously broken if the admirably done field dressing is any indication.

 

They praise him, he’s once again done the impossible and credit is given where credit is due. They pat his back and tell him that if he isn’t careful he might get the command track done in one year instead of three, and, really son, don’t do that because it’d make us look back. Kirk throws his head back and laughs, long, laud and false.

 

“Why, though?” They ask, nodding at the ten others being checked over by medical.

 

Kirk doesn’t answer. He stares. Stares until they look away, look away from a kid that’s less than half their age and doesn’t have a single thing going for him other than his daddy’s last name and some good grades. They stand there for a long, long time. Kirk’s long gone by the time they find words.

 

“Kirk’s a beast,” they hear one of the cadets breathe. “A fucking beast, I’ll tell you. Man doesn’t know when to stop, damn near broke his knuckles getting us one of those nine-legged monkey things with the blue fur to eat. Those critters had fur growing on fucking armour, man. Weird shit.”

 

Another chimes in. “Guess what he said after, huh? I’ll tell ya, ‘cause when we asked him where the hell he came from to get them skills. He’s like a regular old Rambo, remember tha old movie? Damn classic, that one. He said he was dropped from a shuttle as a baby and was raised in a jungle by the a tribe of some kinda creatures.”

 

The group guffaws.

 

“And then Ramirez told ‘im that’s from Tarzan, another too-damn-old movie but an effing classic so ‘course he knew ‘bout it. He told us it was a secret ya know, leant in real close looking all serious and stuff. He out right told us he was secretly a human experiment, like he’s being sent with us just for some test run or some shit. Kid’s so full of crap, but damn if I ain’t gonna buy him that drink I owe him.”

 

They think nothing of it until one of the docs came up, hands twitching and eyes wide. The story he tells is as outrageous and unbelievable, but this guy has pictures and a whole ship to back him up.

 

**IV.**

He sits down in the chair offered to him and watches the faces in front of him passively. They’re his teachers, his superior officers, should be his role models. They’re not.

 

He lets the conversation wash over him. It doesn’t matter. He looks at the pictures with a feeling of detachment that comes naturally to him. It’s him alright. Years ago. He’s thin and wide-eyed and angry. They ask him _why_.

 

It’s always the same question. Why not tell on Frank? Why not tell the nice lady what’s going on at home? Why not tell the nice officer what happened on Tarsus? Why take the cadets? Why save the kids? Why, why, why? Sometimes they answer it for him. You’re afraid of the consequences, aren’t you honey? Safety in numbers, am I right? You wanted to show off. You’re traumatised, in shock, it’s all gonna be okay. You’re so brave. Because you wanted to be like your father.

 

He thinks of the car, the cliff. The shuttle to Tarsus. The test. Everything. Thinks, and answers.

 

He leans back in his straight-backed chair and smiles. Teeth showing, sharp and white, and it’s not a kid sitting there. Not a boy, not a man. He is neither. _It_ is something else.

  
“Why what? Tarsus? Frank went after me, that’s not okay but I could handle Frank.”  


Skinny little Jimmy gave as good as he got. Had a slight of hand that could’ve fooled even a Vulcan. Frank had always been a sleepy drunk and he sure as hell ain’t been as attached to a bottle sine forever. His liver problems were all on Jim.

 

“Kodos went after everyone. Not me, I was the perfect example of a superior specimen. I mean, look at me. He didn’t extend that courtesy to everyone and .. I took offense. I rounded up as many as I could and proved him wrong.”  


“How?”

 

No answer follows. He’s never told, neither did those he saved. They hadn’t been a bunch of scared children hiding and scavenging in the dark. They had been the pests they’d been made out to be, surviving through others, uncaring. He’d paved the way for their survival with blood and bones and empty phaser cartridges. There is always the part of him that did it just because he could, to once again prove someone wrong. He wasn’t and never would be what Kodos made him out to be. He wasn’t inherently kind and smart and more courageous that his peers, he wasn’t some sort of perfect specimen because his eyes were blue and his hair was blond and his IQ was over a set number.

 

“You wanted to see me fail. I. Don’t. Fail.”

 

His words are edged with certainty, coated with steel. There’s so little of his parents in him that it’s scary. He looks like his father, swears like his mother, yet acts like neither. A changeling from places unknown. He’s something else entirely, something even the most well-read of them nor those who travelled the furthest have ever seen. They’d like it, but they don’t.

 

They watch him go, weary and none the wiser, and press their mouths in thin, angry lines. They watch his face on screens that light up all around the Federation, watch him smile and nod and accept the thanks he’s owed for saving their planet. They watch him blaze ahead, a trail of crushed laurels and molten metal in his wake. He doesn’t need them, doesn’t stop at saving them once, no, he goes and does it again. And again.

 

 

**V.**

He’s on a show again, smiling serenely at a bubbly host with pink tentacles.

 

“How I became who I am? Well, let me tell you. It all started when as a young boy my mother send me to live with these monks on a faraway planet where I had to cook and clean and wash their clothes, all by hand. Then one day this lady in a sparkly dress told me she’d grant me not one but _three_ wishes-“

 

The audience watches, enraptured.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what I did, or why, but I wrote this.


End file.
